Visiting the Other Side
by Channel D
Summary: Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy...where have you gone? You don't show up at work. Have you met the most dire of fates? So worries Ducky one day. Little does he know that Jimmy is having a great time at...you'll see. Adventure/humor story in 4 chapters.
1. Monday

**Visiting the Other Side**

**by channelD**

_written for_: the NFA _Where Have You Gone?_ challenge. The aim of the challenge was to show that someone is aware that one of the characters is missing...and go from there.

_rating_: K plus

_genre_: Action ?/Humor

_characters_: The crew and the amazing Jimmy Palmer

_setting_: season 6 but no spoilers

- - - - -

_disclaimer_: I own nothing of NCIS.

- - - - -

_Monday:_

Ducky checked his watch. Two o'clock. Palmer was late; way late today. He was sometimes a _little_ late, which was not surprising, given his faulty sense of direction, but not like this. Usually he would call if the Metro was running behind, or he had gotten caught at school. No, this was simply not like Jimmy. This was where he should be, and there was plenty of work for him to do.

He didn't want to appear a nag, though, so Ducky resisted phoning him, for now.

An hour later, though, he gave in and did phone his protégé, only to have the call go immediately to voice mail. _What is going on?_

His thoughts were interrupted by a call on the Autopsy landline. _"Doctor Mallard? This is Leslie Baker in the Director's office. HR is doing payroll and they couldn't find a record of James Palmer having signed in today."_

"No, Mr. Baker; young Palmer has not come in today," Ducky said with a sigh.

"_When do you expect him?"_

"Three hours ago."

- - - - -

"I'm sure there's a good explanation, Duck."

"He's too responsible, Jethro. I think even after all these years I still intimidate him a bit. Something is preventing him from calling."

Gibbs folded his hands, patiently. "Other than that, Duck, there's no reason to think he's in danger. Look; he's a grown man. If he doesn't show up tomorrow afternoon—"

"Morning. He doesn't have any classes on Tuesdays this term."

"Morning, then. If he doesn't show up in the morning, we'll do something."

Ducky nodded. That didn't stop him from driving out to Jimmy's apartment after work, but there was no answer to the buzz on his doorbell. _Where has he gone??_

- - - - -

Where? Around the time that Ducky first started wondering, Jimmy Palmer was listening raptly to the animated conversation of three middle-aged doctors. He could follow most of what they were talking about, but if they asked for _his_ opinion, he might be stuck.

Doctor Mallard was so inspiring, so wonderful to work for—but here were rooms full of people with many, many different experiences and points of view. Jimmy felt like a kid in a toy store! With some reluctance, he pulled himself away from that group and wandered to another, where two men and a woman were discussing striations. _I _love_ that topic!!_

Never mind that he was running a little late for work…Doctor Mallard would understand, when he found out. _After all, I had been on a legitimate class-related errand, bringing a file to that visiting famous Doctor Cervantes, when I came in here, looking for him._ Certainly, there was no doubt that Doctor Mallard himself would be enthralled with the proceedings. _Wonder why he isn't here?_

It wasn't every year that the National Convention of Medical Examiners came to Washington.

- - - - -

Still, Jimmy was vaguely aware that he shouldn't be lingering. He had a job to get to. And, he wasn't a registered member of the convention—he'd been given a guest pass to get in to locate Doctor Cervantes, but it wasn't right that he lingered, since he hadn't paid the admission fee. _Just a few minutes more…_

When finally he tore himself away and went back out to the hotel corridor, he tore off the gummed guest badge and tossed it in the trash. He was surprised to hear his name called, then. It was Cervantes himself, with a small entourage, inviting Jimmy to join them for a snack. How could he say no? So he followed the small group down the corridor and through the connection to the convention center, which shared a wall with the hotel. Cervantes knew the route, and soon the group was parked at a bar, with burgers and light drinks. Jimmy enjoyed the conversation, and enjoyed being treated like one of them. _A little while longer can't hurt…it would be rude to leave so soon…_

- - - - -

Fortunately, Cervantes was on a tight schedule, and they were only at the bar for about 25 minutes. Jimmy said good-bye to them as Cervantes and his people headed for the hotel, but he lingered. A sign had caught his eye. _Yes; just as I thought from the sign outside…_

- - - - -

Nervously, he stood in the entrance to the convention hall, peering in. This was _definitely_ not his crowd. And yet…

"Come in, come in, young man. Don't be shy," said a 50ish woman from a desk just inside the door. "First convention?"

"Er…yes."

"We don't bite. We're not trained in that," she laughed. "What's your name?"

"Uh, Palmer. James Palmer."

"Well, here you go, James. Here's your badge, the pocket program, and the souvenir book, along with a map of Washington if you need it. I wish we could print you out a regular badge, but our computers are down! If you ask me, computerized real-time registration is for the birds. But I'm just a volunteer. Enjoy the convention!"

"I will," Jimmy murmured, looking down at his neatly-printed name on the badge. The badge also said, in pre-printed letters, _47__th__ Annual Special Agents Convention._

_Agentcon_. No, he would _never_ have expected to be admitted _here_.

- - - - -

He walked a little ways away from the registration tables, then stopped and thumbed through the pocket program, marveling at all the things to see and do that there were. At least three distinct talks or panel discussions going on at any one time, plus demonstrations, workshops, and even a film program, where it appeared the audience was free to heckle movies that had no real clue as to the special agent's life.

_Secret Agenting 101: Your First Year on the Job  
__Memories of Elliot Ness  
__Turf Wars: CIA/FBI Smackdown  
__When Partner Relationships Go Sour_

There were so many items that sounded fascinating…and these were just today's events!

_Working Outside the Beltway: There _is_ a World Beyond D.C.  
__Privacy Rights: Changes in the Law That Will Affect You  
__Acting as a Technical Advisor to Film & TV  
__Getting the Drop on Your Suspect: New Techniques_

But there was one just about to begin, and this one he raced to get to: _Working With the Medical Examiner._

- - - - -

"…so the need to keep the body perfectly in place, undisturbed, until the medical examiner can make his or her analysis, can be crucial in solving a case."

His point made, Jimmy sat back down in his chair in the audience, to many murmurs of assent and even some applause.

"You sound like you have a lot of experience in that, young man," said the panel moderator. "Which agency are you with?"

Jimmy choked. He had never intended to identify himself like this. "Uh…NCIS."

"Beg pardon?"

_"NCIS,"_ Jimmy said, more forcefully.

"Never heard of it," someone said.

"Something out of North Carolina?" one person speculated.

"For shame, all of you. It's the Naval Criminal Investigative Service," said another panelist. "We don't often see NCIS here at Agentcon. It's good to have you." And the talk moved on to another subject.

This time, Jimmy attempted to do more listening, but actually found the moderator calling on _him _on a few unclear points. He swelled with pride, and completely forgot about his need to be at his real job.

- - - - -

After that 90-minute panel, the dinner break came. Jimmy found himself invited to go to a Japanese steakhouse with some of the agents, and he readily accepted. The food was great, and the shoptalk fun and free. Jimmy had to impose some self-censorship so that he didn't give away his true profession, but he was able to add enough stories of his time working with "the medical examiner" to add many laughs.

In the evening, there were a few sober panels, but much of the night's events were light-hearted social activities: games, contests, more films to ridicule. In one room a marathon of _The Untouchables_ episodes ran, and many agents with long memories of the old TV show of the Elliot Ness days attended, sniffling fondly. Others crowded the hospitality suite for free light refreshments; still more plunked down cash at one of the bars.

It was nearly midnight when Jimmy left; two friendly Secret Service agents offering him a lift back to his apartment. He was abuzz with happiness, and assured them that he would indeed see them tomorrow.

Only a slight chill of reality set in, as he sleepily entered his apartment and pulled off his clothes.

_1) I have to work tomorrow morning._

_2) I don't even have an excuse for today!_

_3) I've been invited to speak on a panel tomorrow!!!_

He set down his phone on the kitchen table. It had been switched off ever since he'd entered the hotel around 11 a.m. _Now I can't forget to call Doctor Mallard first thing tomorrow, and beg forgiveness…I won't forget…_

- - - - -

At his home, Ducky tossed in his sleep. He'd tried several times to reach his assistant by phone, with no luck. His parental side kicking in, Ducky could only imagine several dire fates that could have befallen the young man, each more terrifying than the last. And still, Gibbs had refused to become concerned.

At last he slept, and dreamed of poor Jimmy being eaten by aardvarks at the zoo.


	2. Tuesday morning

_**Chapter 2: Tuesday morning**_

- - - - -

At 7 the next morning, Jimmy was dressed and ready to leave his apartment for another day of…of…

He picked up his cell phone, which he'd already picked up and set back down a dozen times. This time, though, he actually dialed. He swallowed and swallowed, waiting for the pick-up at the other end.

The landline in Autopsy rang, and rang, and rang. _Odd…Doctor Mallard is usually in by now…_

And then there was the peculiar little sound that Jimmy recognized as the call being transferred automatically. In a panic, he almost hung up, but he wasn't quick enough.

"_NCIS. Leslie Baker speaking. How may I direct your call?"_

Leslie Baker! The Director's secretary/pet toad. "Um, this is James Palmer. I was trying to reach Doctor Mallard in Autopsy."

"_He must not be picking up. Mr. Palmer, you did not come in yesterday, and HR doesn't have a leave slip for you…"_

"Yes, well, I—"

"_Hold on; let me transfer you to management."_

_Management!_ Before Jimmy had time to absorb this, a deep voice came on.

"_Palmer? This is Vance. Where were you yesterday?"_

_I am so, so dead…_ "Uh, I had to stop on my way to work to deliver something to a visiting professor…and I kind of…lingered at the convention he was attending. The International Society of Medical Examiners convention."

"_Oh?"_

Jimmy couldn't tell whether that was a good "oh" or a bad "oh", so he plowed on. "And right next door to it, in the convention center…you see, the professor dragged me and some people off for a late lunch…right next door was this convention for special agents, and I—"

"_Agentcon." _

"Yes, sir." _Of course he would know about it._ "And I uh, was given a badge by mistake, but it was really interesting and I was also calling to ask if I could have today off because I've kinda been asked to speak on a panel since I know about the ME job, and—"

"_Palmer! Did you tell anyone you were a special agent??"_

"No! No, sir. But I was never exactly asked…"

"_Well, well…If you want the day off, I'll give it to you. But you'll have to take leave without pay for yesterday. And you'll have to square things with Ducky when you come in."_

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said with remorse.

"_Hang on a minute. Let me see how this will play out…"_

- - - - -

At this very moment, Ducky was thumping his fist on Gibbs' desk, trying to get his attention. Gibbs drowsily turned an eye his way.

"Jethro, you must do something! There is still no sign of Palmer. I fear the worst!"

"Do you have any evidence to indicate he's in danger?"

"Well…no, actually. Just my gut feeling…"

"The police won't accept a missing persons report for 48 hours, Duck. With good reason. Wayward adults almost always show up in that period."

"But he could be lying injured somewhere! Jethro, really; I expect more help from you than this!"

Gibbs wiped his tired brow with his hand. "Duck, my team and I were out all night on a stake-out. I've sent them home to get some sleep, and I'm about to go do the same for myself. We'll be back by 3. If by then—" He raised a hand to stop Ducky's outcry. "—if by then there's been no sign of him, we'll talk. Okay?"

"I suppose so," Ducky muttered, and started to walk away, clearly dissatisfied. Then he stopped and turned around. "If this were one of your team, you'd be moving the proverbial mountain to find them."

"Palmer's not an agent. There's no reason to think he's in danger."

"No, he isn't an agent. But he is a person. And no less deserving of help."

Gibbs rubbed his sore eyes as Ducky walked off. He knew that if Ducky's gut told him that Palmer really was in danger, then he, Gibbs, should help. But if the ME was overreacting…

He was too tired to be of much use now. He finished his preliminary report for Vance, and then signed out and went home.

- - - - -

At 9 a.m., opening time for this second day of Agentcon, Jimmy was in line when the doors opened. He headed for the Green Room and picked up his speaker's ribbon. The ribbon, a nice dark maroon with gold lettering, attached to his convention name badge by a small adhesive strip. He noticed the convention's logo—a blend of fists, guns, and listening devices under an eagle—was also carried on the ribbon. The con was nothing if not thorough.

He was glad that Vance had been understanding, although there was still the matter of having to face Dr. Mallard tomorrow. _I have less than 24 hours to come up with an apology,_ Jimmy thought, nervously. _Well, I'll enjoy the con while I'm here._

The panel discussion on which he would be speaking was at 1 o'clock; hours away. There was no panel he wanted to see just then, so he headed for the so-called "Dealers' Room".

Set in a large room, the Dealers' Room proved to be where numerous items related to special agenting were sold. There were DVDs of old, favorite TV shows: _The Man From U.N.C.L.E., Secret Agent, The Saint, Get Smart!_, and more. Comic books and novels abounded. Knives, sabers, even light sabers (who said special agents didn't have a giddy side?). Posters from _Men in Black_ to _The Day of the Jackal._ Fedoras, sunglasses, fake James Bondish-gadgets. How-to espionage books from around the world. Homemade frosted cookies shaped like badges. Trading pins, principally Russian, but from all over. It was a colorful scene. Jimmy looked but did not buy…the loss of the pay from yesterday was going to be harsh enough on his budget.

He left the room after almost an hour to go see the 10 o'clock talk on _Looking for Agents in All the New Places_, about a recommended shift in hirings. Giggles passed through the grapevine at work claimed that Vance had said that the Tim McGees of the world, rather than the Tony DiNozzo classic cops, met his idea of the future of NCIS. It would be interesting to see if the panel felt the same way.

_Gah!!!_ Out of the blue, Jimmy saw, about 30 feet off, someone he knew. Sort of knew. Wasn't even sure of his name, really. Fortran? Fordello? Something like that. The guy who worked for the CIA, or the NTSB, or…whatever. Friend of Gibbs. Jimmy panicked, though he wasn't sure why. Vance had approved his request for the day off.

The other man turned his head in Jimmy's direction, and then did a double take on seeing him. Jimmy could see that the man couldn't figure out why he looked familiar.

_I could be polite and go over and introduce myself,_ Jimmy thought.

_Or, I could run._ He chose that plan. He wasn't sure he wanted to answer questions yet.

- - - - -

The panel was just starting when he arrived, and the room was crowded. Jimmy found an aisle seat on the far side of the room, and when seated, pulled out a pad of paper to take notes.

"Hey, buddy," said the man next to him, giving him a poke. "Your agency doesn't give you a Blackberry to record stuff like this?"

Jimmy could see that the question was meant kindly, but it still made him uncomfortable. He wasn't even sure if NCIS agents had Blackberrys. "No; less chance of equipment failure this way," he improvised. "Back at HQ the notes will be transcribed and then shredded and, uh, mulched."

"Oh," said the guy. "How environmentally conscious. Which agency are you with?" He peered at Jimmy's hand-lettered name badge, but unlike the pre-printed badges, didn't find an answer there.

"NTSB," Jimmy said. It was the first thing that came into his head.

"The Transportation Safety Board? I didn't know you guys had special agents."

"All government agencies have special agents," Jimmy said loftily. "Even the Department of Education. Crime is everywhere."

"I suppose," said the other man, though he sounded dubious. He settled back to listen to the panel talk.

The panelists had differing points of view, it turned out. This annoyed Jimmy somewhat, since he'd been hoping for clear answers. Reluctantly he accepted that diverse opinions were necessary to keep the panel interesting and balanced, but still…

_Agents more brainy, and less brawny?_

_Computer skills over physical smackdowns?_

_Better educated over street experience?_

_Military service over private sector experience?_

_Community service over personal hobbies?_

_Aggressive over mild-mannered?_

Jimmy's notes were thick and fast, coming too quickly for him to take much time to think. But think he did. NCIS _could_ clearly take a different route…But would it be the same agency if it did? And why would his opinions, as a medical-examiner-in-training, ever matter?

When the panel talk ended, he went downstairs to see an exhibit on the history of special agents (the kind of information so dated that it would have become unclassified years ago, he decided), and then it was time for a quick lunch before his 1 o'clock panel.

At a convention center snack bar, he bought a turkey burger and a bottle of water and sat at a small table, anointed by crumbs left by other special agents. _Special agents!_ he thought, suppressing a giggle. Once again he was amazed and awed to be in such august company, even if under somewhat false pretenses. _If I had an evidence bag on me, I could take these crumbs back to NCIS and try to figure out by DNA—saliva, maybe—who sat here._ He didn't have an evidence bag, of course. But he did have a handkerchief. Shaking his head at his own silliness, he swept the crumbs into it, knotted it, and put it in his pocket. _As if Abby would ever give me time in her lab to test this…_He thought, trying to remember what the procedure was.

After a moment he gave up and decided to call Abby. She might not let him run the test, but she would at least tell him how it was done. _I'm just curious; that's all. One should never stop wanting to learn…_ But the call went over to voice mail, and he clicked off without leaving a message. Sighing, he put the phone back on the clip on his belt, forgetting to turn it off. He'd been so good about keeping it off here. Not that he was one to get a lot of calls, but he hated people who let ringing phones distract others, particularly in lecture halls. He didn't want to be one of them.

- - - - -

Ducky ate his own lunch, alone, in Autopsy; glancing now and then to the coat tree, as if expecting to see Palmer's jacket appear there. He was deeply worried now.

_Time: Noon._ Three more hours before Gibbs was due back. He could try calling him, and guilting him into returning sooner, but that might just as likely cause Gibbs to refuse all the more. _Why doesn't he understand? Palmer is not the type to behave irresponsibly. I know him. Something must be very, very wrong._

Once again, he got up and tried to triangulate Palmer's cell phone location; not expecting results. _Either the phone was switched off, or was destroyed, or was…_he gulped…_at the bottom of the Reflecting Pool near the Lincoln Memorial. Perhaps Palmer had gone there, and had been lured by shiny change thrown in, and had leaned over too far and fallen in, and…_

He jumped in surprise when the program pinged a location! _His cell phone is working!!!_ And it was right here in Washington!

Ducky grabbed his coat, then stopped. If Palmer were indeed in danger, what could an older man, alone, do to help him?

No, he'd have to wait until Gibbs came in. _I only hope we're in time…_

Sitting back down on his stool, Ducky cried.


	3. Tuesday afternoon

_**Chapter 3: Tuesday afternoon**_

- - - - -

It didn't occur to Ducky to simply try _phoning_ his protégé, even now that it was evident that Jimmy's phone was on. It wouldn't. If Jimmy had been free to phone his mentor, Ducky reasoned, he surely would have done so. _Jimmy must be being held against his will!_

- - - - -

At that moment, however, Jimmy was having the time of his young life. As he had been instructed yesterday, he arrived at the convention Green Room 20 minutes before the start of his panel to meet with his fellow panelists.

The panel discussion topic was _Is There Real Harm in Moving the Body Before the ME Arrives?_ Naturally Jimmy had many opinions on that. The moderator, a supervisory special agent with the FBI, had to laugh and keep reminding the panelists not to discuss all the good points here in the Green Room, before the panel began.

When they marched into the assigned panel room shortly thereafter, Jimmy felt a thrill. _They really want to hear what I have to say!_ Sternly, he told himself to calm down and remember not to blow his cover. _Blow my cover! That's like being an agent!_ He took his seat at the panelists' table on the riser and covered his giggles with a glass of water.

His spot was at one end of the table—the spot for the junior panelist, he figured. There were three agents, all supposedly with opinions on the subject, at the table, and the moderator (also an agent, of course) sat in the center. At 1 on the dot, the moderator spoke into her microphone and welcomed the audience to the panel. She then had the panelists introduce themselves. There was a woman from the CIA, who seemed to be sharp-edged in her manner. A man from the Secret Service was next, saying that he didn't really know why he was on this panel, since his agency rarely got to the point of dealing with bodies. (Jimmy noticed that this remark resulted in a lot of eye-rolling from the audience...he'd heard that panelists should never say "I don't know why I'm here...") The third panelist was with DEA, and he went on…and on…and on…about his lengthy service with drug enforcement.

Then it was Jimmy's turn. "I'm James Palmer. A man of few words," he said, simply, and nodded back to the moderator as several in the audience cheered.

All in all, the panel was a huge success! Jimmy frequently scored points against the Secret Service man and the CIA woman, both of whom seemed to have only grudging respect for MEs. Jimmy cited case after case (details redacted) in which the unmarred corpses lead to more quickly-solved crimes, whereas when someone had intervened, the cases became that much harder. The moderator appeared impressed, and when late in the period the moderator took questions from the audience, many of the questions were aimed at Jimmy.

The 90 minutes had flown. With sincere congratulations from the other panelists (or mostly sincere), Jimmy fairly floated out of the room in search of…he didn't know what. Something else to make his day complete.

A strong arm grabbed his, twisting it back painfully, as Jimmy was dragged into a darkened area under a staircase.

"Palmer! Just what are you up to?! You _are_ Jimmy Palmer of NCIS, aren't you?!"

"Yes, uh, no, uh yes," Jimmy said weakly. He turned his head to look at his captor. It was that CIA—no, FBI guy. _For…For…_

"I thought so. I looked you up this morning at work. You're not a special agent."

"Are you sure of that?" Jimmy said, trying to regain some dignity.

"Very. You're a medical school student working part-time at NCIS as assistant to Ducky. I've got suits in my closet older than you, kid."

Jimmy struggled to get loose. "What do you want from me, Agent—" Now he could see the badge. "—Fornell?"

"I just am curious to know what you're doing here, posing as a special agent."

"I have never explicitly said I was a special agent."

Fornell let him go as realization dawned. "You wandered over from the medical examiner's convention in the hotel!" he said with a grin. "Can you get me into that?"

"Maybe," Jimmy said quickly. He'd already had too much luck getting this far; it was time to fall back a little. "I know one of the guest speakers there; a Doctor Cervantes…"

- - - - -

Gibbs was back at NCIS at 2:45, and Ducky was waiting for him. "You certainly take your time, Jethro," the ME scolded.

"Gotta have my sleep. I seem to recall you telling me before that I don't get enough of it."

Ducky ignored that. "I know where Palmer is! He's being held prisoner! Now go—go—rescue him, before he runs out of time!"

Gibbs rubbed his eyes, carefully keeping the _here-we-go-again_ frown off his face. "What makes you sure that he's being held prisoner? Has there been a ransom demand?"

"Well, no, but it stands to reason, man! His cell phone is working, but he has not called me!"

"Have you tried calling _him?"_

"No…not since yesterday…"

Gibbs pulled out his own phone. "What's his number?"

Ducky gave it, and Gibbs tapped it in.

- - - - -

Jimmy pulled out his ringing phone and stared at the sender display. _Gibbs._ Oh, no; that couldn't be good. Jimmy's luck was evaporating fast. He let the call go over to voice mail, feeling his face flame as Fornell looked at him curiously. "Aren't you going to take that—Agent Palmer?"

"It's probably just someone selling aluminum siding," Jimmy said, putting the phone back.

- - - - -

" 'Palmer, this is Gibbs. Call me when you get this message.' " Gibbs clicked his phone shut.

"See?? He's not answering!"

"Maybe he's out somewhere and left his phone at home. Or maybe he lost it."

"Well, I do know where he is! I've triangulated his phone!"

"What's going on?" asked Tony, coming in, stifling a yawn. Ziva and Tim followed him.

"Where does it say Palmer's phone is?" Gibbs said, in a careful choice of words. "Palmer didn't show up for work yesterday or today," he said to his team.

Ducky ran over to Tim's computer. "If you don't mind, Timothy…"

"Be my guest."

Nodding, Ducky logged on and pulled up a saved file. "He's not far! See??"

"Downtown, around Mount Vernon Square?" mused Tony. "That's still a lot of ground to cover."

"Ducky, let me…" Tim tried to refine the search. "Look, the ping has moved a bit. Not much, but a bit."

Gibbs expected another plaintive, somewhat outlandish comment from the ME, but none came. Instead the old man looked a little gray and shaky. "Duck, sit," he said, shooing Tim out of the chair. "We'll go check it out."

- - - - -

Tim worked an onboard computer as Gibbs drove the truck. "Location hasn't changed," he announced, studying the triangulation program. "Having a hard time narrowing it down, though."

"Try harder, McGoogle," Tony growled, eyeing the busy, built-up area that was Mount Vernon Square.

"He could be at the Carnegie Library," volunteered Ziva. "Doing research for a class, perhaps."

"I'm betting he's here at the Almondine Hotel," said Gibbs as he drove by it slowly.

"Why is that, boss?"

Gibbs only nodded to the tasteful sign out front: _Welcome, International Convention of Medical Examiners!_

- - - - -

By some miracle, Jimmy's luck had returned. Cervantes was quickly located and introduced to Fornell, and was happy to use his influence to get a pass to the convention for the FBI agent. Jimmy waved to the two of them and headed back to the convention center for Agentcon. He knew, at least in the back of his mind, that Fornell could call Gibbs, or even Vance, and make trouble for him if he wanted to…

_Tomorrow. I'll face the music tomorrow, if I have to._ Today, though…he'd enjoy the con while he could.

He visited the convention Art Show, where original works by agents with talent with a brush or ink were displayed. Most of the themes dealt with violent action items: car chases, shoot-outs, and the like. The most compelling ones were character studies, though: a lone female agent on a stake-out; a male agent about to break down a door; one agent comforting another over a loss (a partner?). Again, Jimmy felt a longing to buy something, but had to turn away.

When he left the room where the Art Show was held, he was in a broad convention center corridor. "Sorry," he said automatically as someone bumped into him, even though the other man done the bumping. The man didn't reply.

Watching him move…almost _slink_…away, Jimmy felt a sudden alarm. He knew he had a tendency to jump to conclusions, but there was something about that guy that seemed _off,_ like a bad tomato or a warm _Caf-Pow!_ Curious, Jimmy followed the man down the long, long corridor.

Two other men fell in step behind the man who had bumped him, coming in from cross corridors. And then two more, and two more after that. They weren't _really_ together, were they? No one else seemed to be paying attention.

Jimmy increased his speed and closed the gap between himself and the group. A convention center employee went by on a Segway, momentarily distracting Jimmy. But he then snapped back to the matter at hand, and chugged off after Mr. Bump and his followers as they turned a corner into another broad corridor.

People were just coming out of a panel room, and there Mr. Bump and his group stopped. The panel had been well-attended; Jimmy quickly estimated the exiters at being over 100. The number of people exiting trickled off, indicating the room was emptying. Then out came people talking with each other; evidently the panelists and a few groupies.

"_Charlton!"_ Mr. Bump called.

As one of the panelists (or groupies) turned his head, Bump and his people drew their guns and aimed. Agents all around reacted by drawing theirs. But so did more people, aiming back at them (shadow Bump supporters, perhaps).

All in all, over 100 guns were drawn and leveled. And Jimmy, gunless, was right in a couple lines of fire.


	4. Tuesday late afternoon

**Chapter 4: Tuesday late afternoon**

- - - - -

"Let's move in," instructed Gibbs, parking the truck in a bus zone across from the hotel. "Find Palmer. I don't dare return to NCIS to face Ducky without him."

The ME convention occupied all the function rooms on the second, third and fourth floors. Splitting up, it didn't take the team long to peruse each room and find no sign of the lanky, wavy-haired Palmer. Nor was he in any of the hotel restaurants or bars. They reassembled in the second floor pre-function area to plan their next move.

"Well! I go days without seeing anyone from NCIS, and then my ship comes in, so to speak!"

"Tobias?" Gibbs said, in surprise.

"It's me. Large as life and twice as ugly," said Fornell, cheerfully. "How're you all doin'? Is anyone still working at your Navy Yard building #111, or did Vance set the inmates free?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, I know youse guys don't get to many conventions, so when I see you here now and that kid, Palmer, earlier—"

"You saw Palmer? Where?"

"Well, here; but actually, over in the convention center, at Agentcon—"

Gibbs sighed, while his team looked surprised. "Come on, folks," said Gibbs, seeing a sign pointing the way to the connection to the convention center.

"Did anyone tell your boy he's not a special agent?" Fornell chuckled.

"Yeah. Same folks who didn't tell you that you're not an ME," Gibbs said, thumbing Fornell's ME convention badge.

- - - - -

"All of you, put your guns _down!"_ the man Jimmy thought of as Mr. Bump thundered.

"You first," said a woman standing next to the targeted Charlton. No one laughed, no one moved. Well over 100 guns were drawn, pointing in various directions. Dead seriousness was on everyone's faces.

A man next to Jimmy nudged him. "Where's your gun?" he whispered. "I'm assuming you're on the side of Good, that is."

"Uh…it's in my hotel room. In the room safe," Jimmy whispered back. "My agency doesn't like us carrying guns when we don't have to. It saves wear and tear on holsters."

"You're kidding, right? Which agency are you with?"

"Fish and Wildlife Service."

"Huh. I didn't even know they had special agents."

"Oh, yes. It can get _very_ dangerous. Some of those, uh, rogue foreign fish trying to get in our waters can be _really_ tough."

The other man eyed him and then looked away. Jimmy swallowed and turned his attention back to the massive standoff.

More agents came around the corner, unawares, and found themselves drawing their guns as well. The crowd swelled to 200…300…even more. Jimmy felt strangely calm, rather than frightened. His optimistic side assured him that he would come through this okay. His less-than-optimistic side wasn't so sure, but was willing to trust the other side, for the time being.

"What is it you want, Hanson?" asked the man Charlton calmly.

"You, dead," replied Mr. Bump.

"I'd say your forces here are outnumbered by at least…30 to one."

Hanson smiled. "Are you sure of that? Are you sure of how many people are really on your side?"

"Relatively. I don't doubt that you've lured agents who have been poisoned by greed. Hello, Stacie. That's directed at you. There will always be some of your type. Hello, Alphonse. But most of us are above reproach, for various reasons, ranging from moral convictions to knowledge that the courts are less than kind to agents who go bad."

"Enough talk. Say your prayers, Charlton."

_Now I lay me down to sleep,_ Jimmy thought, irrationally.

"You won't get out of this alive, you know."

_A bag of peanuts at my feet…_

"A lot of people won't. That's part of the plan."

_If I should die before I wake…_

"What could you possibly accomplish?"

"You know."

"Suppose you tell me? I'd like the history books to get it right."

"Fine. Nothing less than the very destruction of the United States government from within."

_If I should die…what did he just say??_ Jimmy fought back the urge to get out his pad of paper to write this down.

- - - - -

"This convention center is big," said Ziva. "Shall we split up again?"

Before Gibbs could answer, two men in suits sprinted past them, one yelling _"Code Nine! Code Nine!"_ into his phone.

Another pair followed them, looking horrified. "Max, what do we call a 'code nine'?" one said.

"We don't have a name for it!" her companion replied. "I don't think we ever expected it!"

People came tearing out of rooms, all running in the same direction. With a jerk of his head, Gibbs motioned for his team to do likewise. The four joined the mob in running, running, running.

"You think maybe Palmer's in the thick of this, boss?" Tony asked, and then answered himself. "This is Palmer. Of course he's at the epicenter of trouble."

"Or is on his way to it, getting a little lost along the way," said Ziva.

An agent was at Gibbs' elbow. "What's going on?" Gibbs asked him as they continued to run.

"Code nine," said the man. "That's a gun standoff. Toward the ballroom at the corridor's bend, up ahead. Couple hundred people involved, I hear."

"A standoff? At a convention of agents? What fool would do that?!?"

"A rogue agent and some cronies, apparently."

They were reaching the destination. A large crowd stood ahead, eyes focused at the turn of the corridor; guns drawn.

- - - - -

In the silence that followed Hanson/Bump's last, chilling statement, a phone suddenly rang, sounding hideously loud. It was Jimmy's.

A little red-faced, as eyes turned his way, Jimmy pulled it out. The display showed that it was from Doctor Mallard. "Hello?" Jimmy said, quaking.

"_Mister Palmer! At last! I have a bone to pick with you, young man!"_

"Uh, this isn't the best time, sir," Jimmy wheezed, wondering how many bullets could hit him if the assembled agents were trigger-happy. He clicked the phone off, and then was horrified that he'd hung up on his boss.

A shot rang out, followed by another and another…

And then the sprinklers went off…

- - - - -

"Unbelievable," said Tony, a short while later as the team, plus Palmer, climbed into the NCIS truck. "Unbelievable." He followed this with a string of expletives, many of which he hadn't used in a long time.

"How could so many agents go bad, or were they bad recruits to begin with?" Tim wondered. "There must have been at least 30 on the other side."

"And should not we be helping in the cleanup?" Ziva asked. More and more cars from other agencies, principally the CIA and the FBI, pulled up and agents in riot gear ran in. "We were the ones who set off the sprinklers, after all."

"Nope," said Gibbs. "Not our party. We'll hear about it through channels." They were in cramped quarters in the truck. Gibbs gave Jimmy, beside him, an appraising eye, and noticed for the first time a bloody handkerchief tied around Jimmy's wrist. "You okay, Palmer? Want to go to the hospital?"

"No, no; just a scratch, Agent Gibbs," Jimmy laughed nervously.

"Your choice. It's back to NCIS, then." Gibbs pulled the truck out into traffic.

"Oh…good," Jimmy said, feeling sick to his stomach.

- - - - -

"You have had Ducky so worried, Palmer. What's wrong with you?" Gibbs demanded.

Jimmy bowed his head. "I—I have no excuse for yesterday. I got carried away."

"And today?"

In surprise, Jimmy looked up. "I had today off work. I called in this morning, couldn't reach Doctor Mallard, and wound up talking to Director Vance. He agreed to give me the day off. I thought he would tell Doctor Mallard."

Gibbs looked at him and then sighed. It sounded so plausible. "You'll still have to square things with Ducky, and I don't envy you."

Soon they were at NCIS. Gibbs had to shove Jimmy to get him into the elevator that went down to Autopsy.

- - - - -

Ducky looked up when the elevator dinged its arrival. Jimmy stood there, staring at him, for such a long moment that the elevator doors closed and he had to hit the button to open them again. This time, Jimmy got out.

"Well, Mister Palmer," Ducky said stiffly.

"Doctor Mallard," Jimmy acknowledged, and then realized he should continue. "I'm—sorry about yesterday. I should have—"

"Yes, you should have! Indeed! Whatever went through that mind of yours?! Did you feel so carefree, so unfettered by responsibilities that you could just take off? With not any consideration whatsoever toward those who might worry when you don't show up? Mister Palmer!"

At last, Jimmy's emotions went to genuine shame rather than fear for his own skin at his mentor's hands. "I'm sorry. I was wrong. If I could go back and change it, I would have called you at the start."

"At the very least! I don't know what you've been up to, but it couldn't have been so bad—what's this? Why are you holding one wrist? You're bleeding! In both wrists!"

"It's nothing. I only had one handkerchief, so I tied that around one wrist and used that hand to apply pressure on the other wrist."

"Let me see that…" Ducky motioned Jimmy to get up on a table, but when this proved too hard to do without using his hands, had him sit on a stool instead.

Ducky unwrapped the handerchiefed wrist and studied the wounds. "Hmm. Hmm. Aha." Gently he crossed one wrist over the other.

"I must have thrown my hands up to protect my head," said Jimmy. "And got a through-and-through."

"Dare I ask why you were playing around with bullets, Mister Palmer? That is reckless behavior." He tutted while he cleaned and dressed the wounds. "And a doctor can't afford to damage his hands."

"No, Doctor," Jimmy said humbly, gulping down the antibiotics that Ducky gave him. "Are you—are you going to fire me?"

"Well, it certainly is tempting. I need an assistant upon whom I can depend, and you have not proven yourself dependable this week."

"No, Doctor." His voice was just a whisper as he got to his feet.

"You have caused us endless worry and grief; lost time here in Autopsy where there is plenty of work to be done, lost time for Gibbs' team who had to go looking for you! Have you no thought for anyone other than yourself?! Will you ever grow up, or are you going to race headlong into adventure as it comes along?!"

Suddenly Ducky launched himself at the taller man, and hugged him, crying softly. Awkwardly Jimmy returned the hug, mindful of his bandaged wrists. "I'm sorry…I really am sorry, Doctor…"

"Yes, well; how did you get yourself into this pickle?"

"Well…there were over three hundred men and women, all with guns pointed in my direction…"

"Mister Palmer! How can I help you if you tell such tales?!"

"You're…keeping me on??"

"I suppose. But I will give you extra work. I expect the Autopsy van to be scrubbed down until it looks showroom new. And that goes for all the equipment in it, as well. _Showroom new."_

"Yes, Doctor." _Well, at least I still have my job. I should count my blessings._

"Tomorrow. Go home, get some rest. You're useless here today."

"Yes, Doctor." Jimmy turned to go and caught a glimmer of a smile on Ducky's face.

- - - - -

Jimmy didn't go straight home, though. Instead he rode the elevator up to the third floor. "He's expecting you," Leslie Baker said blandly as Jimmy entered the Director's outer office.

After a tap on the door, Jimmy went in. "Director…"

"Palmer. Have a seat. What did you learn?" He seemed uncurious about Jimmy's wrist bandages; he probably already knew.

Jimmy pulled out his pad of paper and read from his notes. "You asked me to look for the points that the FBI and the CIA, principally, were making, but also the NSA and others. I found three separate instances in which a person—that is, three different people—said—" He rattled off factoids, gossip and traits.

Vance listened intently. "Very good, Palmer. _Very_ good. As I told you, NCIS has never been able to send agents to Agentcon. The membership fee is over 300 dollars per person, and we can't justify that in our budget. But it's an important gathering, not so much for the panel talks and all, but for the connections. Maybe next year I'll find some money for an agent or two."

"Here in Washington?" Jimmy said, joyfully.

"You had a good time, did you? Well, I don't think Agentcon will be welcome back at that convention center soon…not with the gunfire and the sprinklers and the SWAT teams. Only one death…that's a minor miracle. But convention centers don't see it that way."

"That other thing we talked about this morning, sir?" Jimmy prompted.

"Ah, yes," Vance smiled. "You enjoyed your time posing as a special agent. And you still want to take the classes at FLETC."

"More than anything, sir!"

"The idea has a lot of merit. You'd be a medical examiner on the surface, but a fully-trained agent underneath. I can certainly visualize a lot of situations where that would come in handy. All right, Palmer; I'll get you enrolled in our next class there. But you'll have to succeed on your own merits. And for the time being, this will be our secret."

"Yes, sir!"

"Good. Now go home, Palmer. Do not stop at the convention center on your way. Get a good night's sleep."

"Yes, sir." Jimmy went out, a big grin on his face. Someday, soon, he would be able to truthfully say that he was a special agent…for NCIS.

-END-


End file.
